I'll Have a Blue Christmas - A Short Christmas Story
by annakristinj
Summary: "It's Christmas Eve, and Santa is making his rounds. However, Santa stumbles onto a parent abusing their child, and he has no choice but to take action." A Writing Prompt From The Instagram Page mpt.s'


Has Santa Claus visited you yet this year?

If you had asked Finn Adams this question, he would've answered with, "Who's Santa Claus?" Finn lived a sheltered childhood.. but not in a good way. While other children on Christmas Day would receive black and blue wrapped presents, he'd receive black and blue eyes.

Who was the cause of this?  
Why, Finn's mother, of course.

Abigail Laurens was a widow in her late thirties. After her husband, James, passed away during his service in the military in the National Guard, Abigail attempted to remove all memories of him, including changing her last name back to her maiden name, getting rid of every object he had bought her, and removing all pictures of him and their family that she owned. But of course, there was one reminder of James that she could not get rid of as easily as throwing some photos into the fire or tossing a necklace into the trash. Her son, Finn.

Finn never went to school, because of the fear he might be taken from his only family he had left. You might think that that was better than staying with an abusive mother.. but there's something here that every person needs to learn about Finn Terrance Adams.

No matter how much someone may hurt you, or no matter how much someone may destroy you both physically, mentally, and emotionally, when they treat you nicely, you have to love them. When his mother had her good days, as rare as they might be, he loved her. After all, she was his mother. Even if she was completely brutal, leaving scars on Finn that would mark him as a victim of assault for the rest of his life, give him a gift or treat him as a _real person_ the next day, and he couldn't hold a grudge.

On Christmas Eve, while most children were asleep, Finn was cowered in the corner, keeping his bruised, beat up arms over his mess of brunette hair. He tried to cover himself from the sharp slaps of his mother. He tried to cover himself from the horrible and sharp scent of alcohol on his mother's breath. He tried to cover himself from all bad feelings he felt within her presence, but nothing seemed to get rid of the trauma. It lingered like a panther, waiting to trap it's prey. His mother had a cheery voice as she spoke to Finn.

"Come out, beautiful! It's Christmas Eve! It's time for you to get to be-ed!" his mother sung each word in an eerily happy voice that she typically would never have.

"No!" Finn had only called out his response. He was hiding underneath his desk, and to his small, seven-year-old mind, this seemed like a perfect spot to hide. In all actuality, his mother could easily drag him out from the small hole between the sides of the desk.

"Finn! Get out here!"

The boy didn't answer. He knew what was going to happen. Finally, his mother had dragged him out by the ankle, giving up on a friendly approach. The pair's eyes met, his mother's pupils formed into slits that only spoke of danger. Finn's own pupils were wide in fear, his eyes furrowed and his mouth shaped into a look of fear.

Santa hummed as he had walked over the snow-covered roof of the Thompson's home. He had just delivered a stuffed elephant to the four-year-old girl, Lizzie, who had sent him the kindest letter every year. She was his favorite child, although he'd tell his elves that he would never choose favorites. Everyone within this neighborhood was always on the Nice List, other than one singular home.

The Adams household.

Santa knew perfectly well that there was a young boy there (Fred? Finn? Something like that..) who should be around the age of a second grader. He had never received any letters from this boy, and he, for whatever reason, had never appeared on Santa's Nice List, or his Naughty List. It was almost as though he had broken the system, landing perfectly in between. So, Santa never visited the home. He couldn't give the boy coal, and he couldn't give the boy any gifts. He would typically skip over that roof and move onto the next one, another boy who was almost always in trouble for picking on someone at school. But now, as Santa looked towards the home, his vision slightly blurred by the snow flurries flying through the midnight sky, he decided he would pop in for a visit. He wanted to figure out how this boy could manage to be in between his Lists.

Santa had carefully stepped over towards the icy, slippery roof of this new territory. He truthfully never had been even inside of this house, being it was built for this family. All he knew was that the father had passed, and the boy was left with his mother. He knew nothing of what either of them looked like, what the mother did for a living, or where the boy went to school. As Santa had examined their home for a chimney, his white eyebrow had arched at the realization that they didn't even have one. These houses were always the most difficult to get through.

It took him a good five minutes, but eventually he had slipped into the living room of this home. It was warm and inviting, which was always a nice sight. Santa took a leisurely stroll through the first floor of this home, as there was an upstairs as well. He had a gentle smile on his face as his bright blue eyes looked towards a jar of cookies. He helped himself to taking a frosted sugar cookie. As he was in the midst of taking a bite, the sound of a sharp yelp from upstairs made him freeze.

Did he hear something? Was it just the wind?

Soon, verifying the idea that he heard some sort of noise, another short scream was heard from above him. It was the scream of a boy. A young boy to be exact. Next, the yelling of a woman. Then, the crashing of some furniture piece. Finally, loud sobs from the same boy.

Santa had broken into a dead sprint. He ran up the stairs, his eyes wide in complete horror as he had tried to follow the noises. As he had moved, the cries and begs for mercy became more audible, allowing him to understand some of the words through the thin walls.

"Please stop!" was the most perceptible phrase Santa could understand. As he had made it to the closed door of the bedroom the two were in, Santa had slipped into the bathroom beside it. He tried to cover his ears with his hat, his eyes squeezed tightly shut in order to block out the cries of the broken boy. Soon, shining tears had traveled down the jolly, old man's cheeks, into his white beard, soaking into the hair. He couldn't stand much more of this. Thankfully, he had later heard his mother stumble out from the bedroom, a bottle of some off-brand, strong-smelling, empty booze gripped tightly in her hand. She had tripped down the stairs, before walking to the fridge to grab a second, new bottle.

Santa took his chance. He raced into the bedroom before shutting the door behind him, locking it. He tried to catch his breath as he pressed his palms against the door, trying to keep it shut just in case she'd come up the stairs after hearing the door slam behind him. But most likely, in her intoxicated state, she was more focused on figuring out which alcohol was the most effective in erasing her memories.

"It won't work," he heard the squeak of a voice behind him. "She has a key to every door."

Santa had turned to see the sight of the small boy. He had clear tears running down his bright red face. There were hand marks all across his body from where he had been hit, and his upper right arm was bleeding. He had a swollen left eye, and his bottom lip was split open. From how hurt he had been and how scared he was from Abigail, the sight of a random, old man walking into his bedroom barely even phased him.

"Do you know who I am?" Santa asked him in a soft voice, trying to keep as calm as he was able without breaking into tears himself.

"No," the boy replied. That slightly took Santa by surprise. This little boy didn't recognize his bright red suit and hat. He didn't recognize his large belly or his joyful demeanor. He probably had never even heard the story of Kris Kringle.

"I'm Santa Claus. I fly around the world on magical reindeer, giving gifts to every good girl and boy, Finn," Finn was silent for a long time. It took him at least a minute before finally saying, "I don't believe you." The boy was born to be a realist. He had already seen the hardships of life and some of the coldest people known to this planet. The idea of him not believing in flying reindeer wasn't that shocking.

"I don't blame you."

"How can I be sure you're not just some freaky guy who walked into my home? How do you know my name?"

"I know your name because I'm what I told you I was. I can prove it to you," he had said. Now his words were rushed, though. Throughout their short conversation, he could hear the footsteps of Finn's mother coming up the stairs, "but I need you to trust me. You've been the best of every child on Earth, Finn. I'm going to give you the best gift you could ask for. I need you to take my hand, and just trust me."

Santa had offered the boy his gloved hand. The boy looked nervous to take it, his eyes looking up to Santa's face, down to his hand. But eventually, Finn had very cautiously placed his hand into the old man's. Now, Santa had rushed them out through the door he had came in. Abigail was directly in front of the door, so she was suddenly pushed aside in order to let the two out. Abigail screamed at the sight of a white-haired elderly man running off with her son.

"Who the hell are you? Get back here!" Abigail had chased after them.

They sprinted through the home once again, down the staircase and around the twisting halls of the suburban home. But soon, Finn had stopped them.

"Wait!" he had exclaimed. Finn ripped his hand away from Santa's, running back into the living room where they had came from.

"Finn! Come back!" Santa had called out, moving to run after him. But soon Finn had returned with a stuffed hippo under his arm. And an angry mother right on his tail.

"Get back here with my son you bastard!" Abigail snapped at Santa, trying to reach out and grab the back of her son's shirt.

Her fingers barely grazed against the fabric, but that was no match for Santa's quick reflexes. He had soon grabbed the boy, lifting him, and carrying him tight in his arms as he ran. He made it out the door, before managing to click his tongue for his reindeer. The reindeer slowly floated onto the ground- much slower than what Santa wanted. Santa constantly looked over his shoulder at the gaining, fuming parent. Finn was sobbing into Santa's jacket, and Santa had only held him tighter to his heart, trying to block the angry calls of his mother just as Santa had tried to do as he hid in the bathroom.

Finally, the reindeer led the sleigh onto the ground. Santa hopped in, strapping the boy on the seat next to him. "C'mon Dasher! Dancer! Prancer! Vixen! Go Comet! Cupid! Donner! Blitzen! _"_ Before Santa could finish his words, Abigail had gripped the rails of the sleigh. The sleigh was moving slowly into the air. Santa's head swiveled around to look towards Abigail's fingers. Her bright red hair was flying around from the wind. Santa leaned down, so the two were eye-to-eye.

"Ho ho ho, bitch," Santa hissed before stomping on Abigail's fingers. Abigail squealed and let go of the railings. Santa yelled out, " _RUDOLPH_!" Soon, Finn and Santa were flying in the air, Finn wrapped safely under Santa's arm.

Every Santa Claus comes across that one child that they love. For this particular Santa, at that time, for all her life, it was Lizzie. But now, that had changed once he had seen the life this new boy, Finn Terrance Adams, had to go through. Each Santa, after finding their favorite child, would take care of them personally, giving them extra-perfect gifts, or making sure they stayed safe.

For this Santa Claus, he had the privilege to take care of his favorite for his entire lifetime, as he had died about thirty years later. Finn had stayed his number one, and soon, Finn was given the best gift he could ever ask for, just as Santa had promised. Two of them, in fact.

The first one?  
The chance to get away from his abusive mother.

The second one?  
Becoming the next Santa Claus.


End file.
